


Prepare A Table Before Me

by captnalbatr0ss



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnalbatr0ss/pseuds/captnalbatr0ss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rafe Adler suffers from a recurring nightmare — this is that nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prepare A Table Before Me

**Author's Note:**

> My interpretation/characterization of Rafe Adler involves a recurring nightmare—I knew when I started writing him that this was a detail I wanted to incorporate because it is one of the ways I dig deeper into his childhood, his relationship with his parents, and why his motivations are what they are. But at first I didn't know exactly what I thought his nightmare was, so I decided to play with that. This is what I came up with.
> 
> Several of my pieces with Rafe involve his nightmare, whether it's just briefly mentioned, or there's a small detail or reference. So this nightmare sort of works with all my stories with Rafe; it's consistent that way, I guess.
> 
> This has violent imagery, abuse, hurt—I’m not sure what all warnings it needs, so I apologize for that. 
> 
> Religious undertones—I have a biblical background, so I’m pulling from that here; Rafe’s nightmare is basically a total distortion of this verse. So if that’s not your thing, skip this one.

 

* * *

 _“You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.” Psalm 23:5._  

* * *

 

The room is white. 

Vast, and devastatingly beautiful.

The sharp lines where walls meet ceiling are so high that Rafe can scarce make them out against the shadows they cast. To peer up at them is dizzying.

At the center of the room there is a table. It stretches nearly the length of the space, surrounded by chairs. High backed, clawed feet.

The table is set, the spread is magnificent. More silver trays than Rafe can count, all spilling over with delicacies. Too pretty to eat. A splash of vibrant color that runs down the center of the table, in stark contrast to the crisp white linen tablecloth.

Silverware is in place, but the plates are absent. 

The glasses are empty.

The room is full of people, well dressed, high class. All stunning. They all wear exquisite garments, either silver or gold. They are decadence. They are luxury.

They all face away from Rafe, they are all silent.

Rafe looks down at himself. His suit is white, like the room. It’s tailored to his body, a perfect fit. 

His feet are bare.

He doesn’t feel anything. Not cold, not hot. There is no smell. No sound.

Silence, so complete it is frightening.

Unnatural. 

Rafe’s eyes narrow, his attention turns to the head of the table. He sees his father. The deep black of his tuxedo stirs something in Rafe, a sense of dread. Of fear.

He moves closer, edging his way through the sea of silver and gold. The people seem weightless, they offer no resistance as Rafe twists, shifts, glides between them.

He’s getting closer now, he sees that his father’s lips are moving, and in his hand he holds a glass. The wine in it is deep crimson, too thick. Viscous.

His father is giving a toast.

But Rafe hears nothing.

He steps out, free of the crowd. His eyes stay on his father, he steps closer.

He hears his name—it comes from behind him, from before him, it comes from the air itself, heavy in the room. Oppressive. 

His brow furrows, he holds his breath, the whisper grows louder. It mimics his father, the movement of his lips, but only certain words.

_Inadequate.  
_

_Imposter.  
_

_Fraud._

Rafe takes another step, feels a sharp pain. He stumbles, looks down.

The plates. Shattered.

Rafe’s feet are bleeding.

The whisper intensifies. A low growl, a familiar voice.

_Discipline.  
_

_Control._

“Rafe.”

Rafe lifts his head. He knows the voice. It is his father’s voice.

His father is tall, severe, his eyes are penetrating, violating. His smile is predatory. Hungry.

He holds out his hand, a deliberate gesture, smooth. His movements are fluid. 

He is a snake, ready to strike.

“Rafe.”

_Control._

The glass is gone. Now, instead, his father holds a belt.

_Discipline._

“They all know.” His father raises the belt. “They all know. They all know.”

Rafe feels suddenly weak, suddenly nauseous. He turns, feeling the crowd closing in, floating closer.

They are faceless. They are only gold, only silver. They are objects.

The only sound in the room is the belt striking Rafe’s shoulders. His back.

Rafe cries out, but his voice doesn’t come. He doubles over against the pain, his body feels small, he feels helpless.

Rafe does not like feeling helpless.

_Discipline._

Rafe turns, hands raised.

The belt strikes his face. Agony. The buckle draws blood. It’s in Rafe’s eyes, it tints his vision.

He shrinks back, his hands reach out blindly.

The table. Cloth in his hands. He wipes his eyes desperately, blinking back tears.

It is always the belt. Again. Again.

Rafe’s hands leave bright blossoms of red on the table. The feast is gone. There remain only the wine glasses, now full, and the knives. They are sharp, dangerous, like the truth behind his father’s smile.

“What you are.” His father’s voice, closer. 

“They all know.” The belt. 

“What you are.” Again. 

“They all know.”

_Control._

Rafe’s fingers kiss the blade, slide down, wrap around the cool metal.

His grip is firm.

His smile can cut, too. His truth is just as sharp.

The belt.

The knife.

Rafe’s aim is sure—he knows where to strike, he knows the way. The knife penetrates, perforates. It is easy. 

Smooth. 

And now there is heat in the room.

Blood.

_Let go._

Rafe feels the emptiness, it rises up in him so fast that he feels like he’s falling.

The people are gone. No silver, no gold. Only empty space.

The table is bare, save for one glass. Overturned. The wine stains the tablecloth, and something about it seems obscene.

Rafe looks down.

He is wearing black.

He is not holding the knife.

He is holding the belt.

It is always the belt.


End file.
